You Made My Heart A Hunter
by Fallen Icons
Summary: Hermione has her doubts about the trip to Bulgaria the summer after GoF... about Viktor, about Harry, and most especially Ron. But she can keep it under control... right? A collaboration between Adrienne Odasso and BrieflyDel. Guess who's writing for whom


I.

If I were to tell you-- today-- that I never fuss so much as an instant over my holiday packing, you would not believe me. I can still sense my mother over my shoulder, hovering in the doorway with a look composed half of perplexity and half of concern. I nearly drop one of the heavy-laden hangers that I suspend before myself, shaming the image of blind justice that fleetingly comes to mind. 

-- _There is no justice in this_. _You know it_. 

_-- I don't know anything! Stop jumping to conclusions_. 

_-- Ah, but you're the one who jumped_. 

"Hermione?" my mother ventures softly, crossing the threshold. "Would you like me to iron that?" 

Biting my lip in frustration, I bend to retrieve the dress, lest she notice the filmy tears gathering in my eyes. "No, they're fine. I haven't decided which one I'm taking, anyway. Maybe neither one." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes," I say, gritting my covertly-repaired teeth. "They'll be _fine_." 

-- _Liar, liar_. 

_-- For the love of Merlin, BE QUIET_. 

_-- The love of _Merlin_, you say?_

_-- Bloody hell! For the love of _Peeves_, if you like!_

_-- No, I don't think you like_... 

"Oh, so you're taking them both, dear?" my mother queries, her tone implying that there's something about which she wishes to speak that she will never get around to saying. 

I shrug, shaking them out. "Why not," I sigh, tossing both the azure sundress and the sweeping skirt into my open valise. 

"Hermione," my mother scolds softly, but not unkindly. "That's no way to do it. Let me find you a garment bag for these. 

"All right," I sigh, offering a smile with some effort. 

-- _It's not_. _It's not as simple as throwing a few changes of clothes into a sack and skipping out the door_. 

-- _Then why did my return owl say _yes_?_

-- _Because you're an impulsive git, probably, as--_

_-- _he_--_

_-- would say_... 

I shake my head fiercely to clear it. For quite some time now, I've recognized that the price I pay for a quick mind and steel determination is an unquenchable conscience. I gather a few pairs of shoes scattered haphazardly on the floor and arrange them neatly atop a layer of books at the far end of my valise. Always some fact to uphold, always some quest to pursue... 

-- _But never your own!_

-- _Then did it ever occur to you that that's why I'm doing this?_

_-- Oh_. _Well, then_. _Just take care not to forget--_

_-- As if I could! I need this, though_. _I need to know_. 

My mother returns with a black nylon garment bag monogrammed with _MEG _in ornate script at the upper right shoulder. She offers it, smiling tentatively, which means that my agitation is palpable enough to deserve entity status. 

"Will this do?" 

"Yes, perfectly," I reply gratefully. "Thanks, Mum." 

She tucks a strand of straight chestnut hair behind one ear as her dark eyes scan my slowly filling valise. 

"Do you think you've forgotten anything? Anything you won't be able to find in Bulgaria if you should need it?" 

I smile ruefully as I tuck the dress and skirt into the garment bag, hanging it over my closet doorknob. 

"I won't know until I get there, will I?" 

-- _Indeed_. 

-- _Please don't remind me_. 

-- _Every step of the way, 'Mione_. 

-- _Please don't call me_ _that!_

_-- Why?_

_-- Because_... 

"Of course not," my mother sighs, and her eyes fall on my texts. "I'm forgetting that you have all that you _really_ need," she adds teasingly, as if to make amends for her cowardice. 

"Hilarious," I manage flatly, concealing my heart palpitations behind an unfamiliar contortion of the lips. 

My mother returns it, leaning forward very briefly to kiss my forehead as she used to when I was five. "You really are lovely when you smile." 

I feel my heart freeze even though my eyes are burning. "Do you think so?" 

-- ... he_ does_. 

II. 

Honor. 

I have experience with trying to hold it up, but somehow, this time it seems much more real than for a school or a country. 

Honor was the subject of the speech Karkaroff always fed me during the Tournament. And it was what Stanislaus Lavrin always spoke of when he took me aside before World Cup matches. 

But when my father takes me by the shoulders and tells me I must be honorable towards this English girl, it takes on a new meaning. He tells me I must not take advantage of her in any way, or it diminishes me as a man and as a host. I know this: I know I would not dream of ever violating her. I could not imagine that she would take any advances well, and I cannot see myself making them: it would not feel right. I suppose every father must have this conversation with his son when the first girl comes to visit like this. Yet even so, it makes me uncomfortable. 

_I am sure they do not think I would do such a thing._

I have been lying awake, staring at the ceiling of my room all night. It does not bother me much anymore, this sleeplessness. I am glad, rather, that I am awake because of her, than because of events... 

I catch myself falling into a trap, and struggle to free myself from it. I know that the slightest mention of that will still upset me, and I must be calm and rested for the trip to the station tomorrow. 

But I feel myself lying on the bed, and that makes me think of waking up on that cot in that tent, and seeing not my parents but a strange nurse who flinches when she touches me, and two hard-faced English Ministry officials. And that makes me think of the abuse I received at their hands, and the way I could not get answers, only curses, and how I had never felt so alone before, and all for the honor of-- 

I sit up, my face hot and my limbs shaking. 

_You fell, Viktor._

I stand up, and pace across my room for a few minutes. I then decide I need some air, some space, and I leave to go wait for the sun to rise. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

_I was not angry since I came to France_

_Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;_

_Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:_

_If they will fight with us, bid them come down_

_Or void the field; they do offend our sight:_

_If they'll do neither, we will come to them,_

_And make them skirr away. . ._

_. . .Besides, we'll cut the throats of those we have,_

_And not a man of them that we shall take_

_Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so._

_-- _Shakespeare's _King Henry V_, Act 4 

------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

III. 

_July 8, 2001_

If I didn't know better, I would think that my parents have been talking to Dumbledore. I told Mum and Dad that the easiest way to Viktor's would have been by Floo Powder, that I had even written Mr. Weasley the day before about temporarily networking our hearth. Both replies came back strikingly negative. 

Dad, just before I finished packing yesterday: "Sounds... convenient, honey, but I'd feel a lot better if you reached the mainland by more conventional means." 

I had to stay my tongue, lest it lash his concept of _conventional_ livid. 

Mr. Weasley, by Pigwidgeon that same evening: _Dear Hermione,_

_Under any other circumstances, I would have the ministry grant your request without hesitation. But we cannot forget that these are dangerous times, and any magical link to a Muggle household-- let alone one that has produced witch offspring-- could prove perilous, if not fatal._

_While I regret that I cannot make your journey as simple as it could be, I can offer you an alternative that I hope will sit well with your parents. Take that underground version of the Hogwarts Express that I've heard so much about to France (does it really go under the Channel without the aid of a Leakproof Spell?), and from Lille there's a portkey operator whom I have notified of your possible arrival. Feel free to use Pigwidgeon to contact him; address the parchment to Monsieur Alain Merrault. He will in turn connect you with an extremely reliable operator in Sophia._

_I hope that you enjoy your visit with the Krums, Hermione. Please take care-- Molly sends her love. Write if you need anything._ _Best wishes,_

_Arthur Weasley_

_P.S.-- Note from Ron enclosed._

The trouble is, Ron's note tumbled out of the parchment bundle first. Despite the fact that "love" translated to a package of homemade cookies and this lovely pressed-flower journal and _in_ spite of Pigwidgeon's hysterical, hooting laps around my head, I was quickly numb for having read it thrice. And even now, sitting here aboard the Eurostar awaiting departure from Waterloo Station, I read it again for the first of perhaps an inordinate number of times. The reasonably roomy plush window seat and the provision of a tray table are no comfort... 

_Dear Hermione~_

-- Dear. He's never begun a letter that way before... has he? 

-- No. For the hundredth time, _no_. Would you just read? 

-- Fine... 

_Harry tells me that you've had mixed feelings over accepting Viktor's invitation. Been awfully close quill pals this summer, haven't you two? He's been keeping me filled in, since Hedwig apparently won't carry anything to the Burrow unless it's been written exclusively by her owner._

-- Ouch. Methinks a formidable Weasley Insult hath been hurled in thy general-- 

-- You're just begging for a lobotomy. 

-- Spoilsport! Continue... 

_It seems your feelings aren't so mixed anymore, considering what Pigwidgeon hit me in the head with today._

_-- _I'll kick him from here to Edinburgh for reading mail that's not addressed to him, that little-- 

-- Mum will kick you as far as Dublin when she finally notices your teeth. 

-- _Argh!_

_I'm not really sure what I wanted to say. I sat down with a pretty clear idea, but now my mind's gone blank. How can I say "Have a nice trip!" when I know you'll have one regardless? Or "Don't forget to write!" when you already have? But what I can say honestly, I think, is--_

-- Here it comes... 

-- It's about time... 

_I miss you. I miss the frizzy-haired know-it-all who drove me nutters from day one. I miss your insuferable (?) study sessions. I miss all of the brave, crazy stuff that you've done that you'd never admit to if it weren't for Harry dragging you into the spotlight. Yeah, I even miss your bloody S.P.E.W. buttons. And I really, really--_

-- Oh, Ron, _don't say it--_

_-- miss the amazing young woman who went to the Yule Ball on someone else's arm. I realize that was my fault. I'm still hexing myself for it._

_-- Oh, Ron! _So am-- 

-- _WAIT._

I crush the parchment convulsively, unable to finish. Not now, not when the train hums to a start, bearing me the first few feet on a journey that will make or break my hopes and dreams-- and Ron's, whether he likes it or not-- for good. 

I stand not only accused, but guilty: Harry and I _have_ given Hedwig plenty to molt about. Often more than two letters a week. It started with me, on that day a little over a month ago when our parents and relatives collected us at King's Cross. Still grave and stunned in the wake of the Tournament, I, without knowing why, had been... cold to Viktor, had nearly ignored Ron, and... had kissed Harry on the cheek. 

Brooding over that kiss on the way home undid me. I could scarcely think up evasive but acceptable answers to my parents' questions fast enough. My thoughts had allied themselves in formidable opposition to a gesture that I had made out of impulsive concern. 

By that evening, I had reduced myself to sickened silence, forced myself into a shaky evaluation of my behavior. By muted desk lamp, I had scrawled Harry a frantic note before I realized that I had no immediate means whereby to send it. The missive read something like this: _Harry~_

_Sorry to be brief, but I really need to ask you something:_

_Why didn't I kiss Ron or Viktor?_

_Hoping you'll understand what she means by that,_

_Hermione_

Harry's response, of course, had been full of his usual earnest candor: _Hermione,_

_I can't really answer that for you, and if I were in the mood to joke, I'd say, Why are you asking me?-- you _have_ all the answers. But I know that in this case, you don't, and I also know that you're struggling. All that I can ask you to keep in mind is this: Ron's struggling, too. It's been a long school year... several lifetimes long, if you ask me, and I'm not talking in terms of Muggle life spans, either. More like Dumbledore's. I'm so bloody tired, actually-- daylight seems dark now, the nightmare doesn't end. Perhaps I didn't kill Cedric, but he chose me as the keeper of his soul._

_Sorry about all of that. I guess I'm just as upset as you are, but about something very different. Or maybe it's not so different. We're both wondering if we've already lost what it was we were meant to keep._

_I hope that you haven't, Hermione. You're out of the maze. At least you can see to find your way._

_Harry_

This led, largely, to nothing. Unless you count the endless, angst-ridden accounts of Ron's woes that Pigwidgeon shuttled Harry's way, much to the disgruntlement of his relatives. I say nothing because neither of us came any closer to resolving our respective predicaments, and I still could not bring myself to owl Ron, who was apparently too proud to owl _me_. In the end, Viktor's gently insistent (and yes, disarmingly sensitive) letters were what persuaded me to change my mind about the blundering refusal I made before leaving Hogwarts. 

IV. 

_She comes in a little later than usual tonight. I do not mind waiting, however. I find that she is worth the wait. I was saving our usual table, and reading about someone named Gytha the Gullible, when she sits down rather breathlessly, looking upset. I close the book and frown. "What is wrong?" I ask. I hear myself stumbling over the English: "Vaht ees rrong?"_

_She looks right into my face, and I am surprised by how haggard hers is. "It's nothing," she says, lying badly._

_I know better than to pry: if she wishes to tell me, then she will. Unsure of what to say next, I hesitantly pick the book up again, and open to a random page._

_"Viktor..."_

_And I look at her again. She's chewing her lower lip -- _she ought to know how unattractive that is, that's she's so much prettier when she doesn't -- _and she leans her elbows heavily on the table. "Viktor, I... I've been thinking. I really don't know if... I can, well, come visit you this summer."_

_I am surprised. "Why not?"_

_I can see her searching for excuses that will satisfy me. "Well, it's awfully expensive, isn't it, and I'm not so sure we can afford the transportation, not to mention the pocket money, and I don't know when I'd be able to get back, and I always spend the last weekend with... with Ron and Harry, and I'll have to get my things at Diagon Alley, and I'm not sure I'll agree with the weather, I'm susceptible to cold, you know, and--"_

_I lean forward, and want terribly to take her hand in mine. Somehow I cannot, and I must suit myself with saying, "I thought we had agreed your tickets were taken care of."_

_"Oh Viktor, it's so awfully sweet of you, but my parents, well, they're a little--"_

_"But Hermione _(Herm-oh-ninny), _we had it all worked out. Has something happened?" I pause. "We will still help, if that is the problem, but--"_

_"Oh it's worthless!" she bursts out suddenly. "Viktor, I'm sorry. I just..." She draws back, and hugs her shoulders. She looks very small and timid at that moment. "I don't really mean all that. It's just... Ron and I had a fight about it. You know..." She shrugs, a small, futile gesture. I fight to restrain myself from getting up and embracing her. I sit, impassive from long years of practice. My defenses break down, however, when I notice the wetness beneath her eyes._

_My hand reaches across the table of its own accord, and touches hers. "Hermione," I say softly, "if you do not want to come--"_

_Her head jerks up. "Oh, no! No, it's not that." She shrugs again. "I just don't know how well Ron's going to take it. He's awfully jealous, you know," she adds quickly. "Taking a trip like this means money, and his family's not, well--"_

_I nod. "You do not have to tell me. Remember, that was _my _family before I started Quidditch."_

_I see she remembers our long initial conversations, the talk everyone makes when they first meet: where are you from, what's your favorite color, what's it like back home. She relaxes a little, and wipes her eyes. "Thank you," she whispers, and we sit, silent, in the library for a few minutes more._

* * * 

And all I remember is how I laughed inside at how she was wrong, about the cold in Bulgaria. _Wait until she sees._

And I begin scanning the landscape behind our house afresh, hoping that it will please her. I study the long stretch of meadow directly before me, and the dark line of trees beyond. Mentally, I explore the hidden places I've found in the forest since we moved here. I wonder which ones she will like the best: the glade by the tributary? the small outcrop of boulders edging the other side? the crumbled ruins of the Muggle church? 

As I watch the sun stretch and appear over the horizon, I review the itinerary I have constructed for her visit. But then it drifts away, replaced only by, _We shall see when she comes._ And, distractedly, I realize I ought to head home for breakfast. 

*** 

_Hermione rises abruptly. "I've got to go back," she half-apologizes. Without another word, she hurries away and I lose sight of her behind the rows and rows of books._   
__ __

**_What, you think we'd leave you with a resolution?? More to come!_**   
**_~ Adrienne & Esther_**


End file.
